


Some Songs Sound the Way It Feels to Have a Rib Out of Place

by Fetishes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, (mentioned) - Freeform, Emotional Repression, M/M, No Beta, Non-Explicit Sex, POV First Person, Past Drug Use, Religion, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25474597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fetishes/pseuds/Fetishes
Summary: UsUk. And through all this bullshit a fundamental, horrific truth makes itself abundantly clear: no matter however hard I try, whether it's through god, or Sex, or white-hot fear, Alfred will never leave me alone. And I've tried it all. Doctor Arthur, Nurse Alfred.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Some Songs Sound the Way It Feels to Have a Rib Out of Place

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Baxter 3rd Is Under Fucking Seige." Inspired by works by Penelope Scott.  
> Warning: talk of religion and emotional repression and casual talk of suicidal thoughts. (Though, it's not too serious.) Also it's Arthur-centric. Also mentioned past FrUk.

Maybe I'm mad. Maybe I want to scream and stomp and slap his stupid face and punch him until he's curled up into a bleeding, purple pulp on the ground. Maybe I want to, and maybe if we weren't in the middle of a public park, I would. (Though, the park was nearly empty, it was late. Maybe I could? No. Perhaps not.)

Alfred had always been a problem, a big– no,  _ hulking–  _ problem that continues to be a thorn in my side despite my constant requests– nay,  _ demands!–  _ to leave me alone, to leave me be. He doesn't follow nor does he even take it seriously. He merely laughs and continues whatever he's jabbering on about.

And through all this bullshit a fundamental, horrific truth makes itself abundantly clear: no matter however hard I try, whether it's through god, or Sex, or white-hot fear, Alfred will never leave me alone. And I've tried it all.

Alfred is religious. A god-fearing conservative who believes that we're going somewhere, that it all matters. I'm not one to try and disprove someone's religion, but when he tries to tell me god loves me and he's here for me, it makes me want to kick him and tell him god left a long time ago.

However, there was one time I believed him. It was a moment of muddled, useless hope when I saw him telling a poor, dying kid that god was soon to take him into his arms and hold him tight and love him more and more and more. I wondered if god would do the same to me; would God love  _ me? _ Would God take  _ me  _ into his arms? Would God love  _ me  _ more and more and more? 

Alfred took me to church. When I told him I wanted to join him he lit up like a christmas tree, and he held my hand and he shared his book of hymns with me and he gave me a bible and he sat with me during seminary. When I got home, my house was broken into. I guess god really doesn't love me.

Alfred, despite his religion and his republican values, likes Sex. He likes having it with me. I don't know who else he likes to have Sex with, I don't know if he likes having Sex with anyone else. When I first dragged him into my bed, after he took me to church, he spouted stupid drivel about god and love and family. 

It's a fond memory, maybe one that I'd consider cherishing. Alfred held my head close to his chest, it was nice hearing loving words while being pounded into the mattress over things like  _ You like that? You filthy, frigid, Lysol-huffing whore?  _ Alfred was kind, though. He liked calling me things like  _ honey  _ and  _ sweetheart  _ and  _ baby.  _ He liked running his hand down my waist gently and smoothly and slowly. He liked holding my hand and kissing me. He held the back of my head gently and he fucked me face-to-face. It was the first time I'd been called beautiful.

Alfred gets scared easily. He held onto me tight the first time we went out to see a movie together. The movie was too humorous (?) for me to find it scary. And yet Alfred dug his nose into the crook of my neck and shook until I reached up to card my fingers through his hair. 

He also gets scared of cars. Whenever we'd walk across the crosswalk, he'd look side-to-side near frantically, and burst into a sprint if he ever saw a car approach. He doesn't like the dark and he can't stand spiders. 

Yet, the most scared I remember seeing him was when I collapsed last year. It wasn't anything life-threatening. Apparently, I was "ignoring fever symptoms," and "not sleeping enough," and "drinking too much alcohol." A bunch of tripe if you ask me. Anyway, Alfred monitors me closely to make sure I don't get drunk anymore. 

Normally I would mind, the only reason I don't is because it was blacking out too easily. Not because it means I can spend more time with Alfred.

When I was in college, I wouldn't party much. I was there for a reason, to get my MD, and soon my DMSc. However, before that happened, I took a fabled gap year.  _ Snort coke, get fucked, go to church and pray to live a life that doesn't suck, _ Francis would say, nipping at my throat and calling me a Clorox-huffing whore. 

In college, it was read books, get laid, and maybe god would let me fucking die one day. I wouldn't do it myself though, that's too easy.  _ Well, I've gotten this far,  _ I'd say.  _ Maybe later.  _

Unlike most of my plans, I've never been able to follow through. Whenever I'd seriously consider it, there'd be a final coming up, or a wedding I'd have to attend, or a date with Alfred.

One time, he had packed a picnic and set it up a top a hill surrounded by flowers. Another time, he held my hand throughout an aquarium and explained to me why that fish moved like that and why that fish glowed in the dark. I asked him why he didn't become a marine biologist or something of that nature, and he told me it was because he'd rather help sick people.

I suppose I was the same. I entered college an eighteen year old valedictorian who wanted to learn how to help people and I came out a twenty-four year-old who forgot how to smoke weed without coughing up my stomach. Maybe I'm just mad because I could've gone to a community college and  _ actually  _ huffed Lysol. I'm not a Lysol huffer. But if I did that, I wouldn't have met Alfred.

On reflection, a follow up to my first statement: I'm not mad. Instead of slapping Alfred, or beating him until he's blue (which, upon more retrospective, I could never, ever do), I start to cry. 

I've cried a lot in my lifetime. When I was seven and I crashed my bike after going too fast down a hill, I cried until my mum came out and held me to her chest. And then I cried some more when my dad told me to shut up. 

When I was thirteen, I managed to take a chunk out of my leg on a barbed wire fence as I was running away from the LDS church I was smoking at with my old friend, Antonio, I tried not crying but I was bleeding pretty heavily and I smelled like weed and I thought my dad was going to kill me. 

When I was in high school and so overworked because I decided it would be a good idea to join three extracurricular activities while balancing my classes  _ and  _ managing the student body, I sunk to the floor and curled up under my desk and cried until I fell asleep.

I'm sure there were more times than that, but those are the few examples that come to mind at the moment. A fifth time that I'm sure would come to mind in the future was happening. It was nearly eleven, we were standing in the middle of the flowers where Alfred took me for that picnic. He was on his knee and holding up a simple, silver engagement band with a single strip of gold through the middle. He couldn't even get the question out before I fell to my knees to get to his level to kiss his mouth until it was bruised.

"I'll take that as a yes?" He said after pulling away. I pulled him right back in and muttered a  _ yes  _ against his lips.

I was glad. I held him tight and he told me he loved me and he called me  _ honey _ and  _ sweetheart _ and  _ baby.  _ And I told him I loved him before crying too much to speak. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been listening to Penelope Scott a lot. She serves as a very good inspiration. I finished this one in around an hour and a half. Not bad haha.


End file.
